CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The ancient black hand shone in the flickering light of the small campfire, its tattoos of spirals and sun wheels spinning as it passed through the circular clearing of the forest. It moved past the two men sitting close to the flames and whispered in the dancing shadows, stroking the cheek of its grandson before vanishing out of the circle and into the night.

Tsungali opened his eyes. The flames made the trees shudder and jump; the world looked unstable and weightless. This must be the other place, he thought, bracing himself for his retribution. Then he saw Uculipsa, lying on the shuddering ground next to his spell pouch; his bandolier, kris, and other possessions were nearby. He extended his hand out towards them, but nothing happened; there was only a wrenching pain. He looked to where his hand should have been, but there was nothing there; his arm was reduced to a stump, from his shoulder to his elbow. He felt sick and groaned loudly. One of the men at the campfire stood up and moved towards him. He stooped down to pick up Uculipsa, lifting her by her carrying strap; the rifle slid apart and swung in two halves. From where Tsungali lay, she looked like a broken bird, hanging mutely from the man’s hand. He walked over and dropped her at the invalid’s side.

“You should have died,” said Williams. “You deserved to.”

Tsungali stared into the face, made of shadows and flashes of orange: It was him.

“My bullet hit your arm as you charged. It took your hand and lower arm and snapped the Enfield in two. It was meant for your chest. You are a very lucky man.”

It was the same voice. How could this be? Tsungali veered in and out of belief, his broken body unable to keep up with such revelation.

“Oneofthewilliams,” he whispered woozily and passed out into a pit of raging black thunder.

—

When he woke, he was in a different place; they had moved him into the shade and changed his dressing. Williams was sitting next to him, drinking from a tin cup. The creature was sleeping. Without turning, Williams spoke. “You know me?”

The wounded man tried to speak, but his throat was closed with dust. At the pause, Williams turned. Seeing the man’s struggle, he poured water into the cup and offered it up to his broken lips. Tsungali drank and dissolved the webs on his voice. “Why did you let me live?” he rasped.

“I would have blown your head off, but he stopped me,” Williams said, gesturing towards the cyclops.

“What is he?” Tsungali asked weakly.

“Ishmael? He is something from the old world, something that never really existed. He is unique.”

He took the cup and refilled it, drank some, and then handed it back, turning again to stare into Tsungali’s face.

“Now, about your words earlier.” His tone tightened to a blade. “What did you call me?”

“I called you Oneofthewilliams. You knew me when I was a young man; the rifle was yours.” He pointed to the pathetic carcass of the snapped Uculipsa. “You were chosen to survive by the holy Irrinipeste, daughter of the Erstwhile, and I believe you have been changed by her forever.”

He finished speaking and slumped a little, fear and fatigue mining his strength.

Williams was very still; he looked perplexed.

“If this is true, why would you try so hard to kill me?”

“I did not know it was you until it was too late. I was working for your old masters; they thought you long dead. Then it was said that you were returning through the coastal lands. They wanted you gone, not coming back. Walking freely through desertion after all this time and relighting old fires.”

Williams could not make images for the words, but the depth of his understanding knew them to be true.

“Do you intend to continue your quest?”

Tsungali shook his head wearily.

Williams got up and slowly walked over to Ishmael, who had been woken by their conversation. His hearing, which had been hiding in a constantly ringing place ever since the pistol fired next to his head, had almost returned.

“I don’t know which of the three of us is the biggest freak,” Williams said, retrieving his bow and quiver. “I will be back in an hour. Don’t worry about him. He is going nowhere.”

He walked out of the camp, a trio of eyes fixed on his disappearing form.

—

Long, indecisive minutes passed. Eventually, Ishmael called a greeting to the wounded man.

“I am coming to speak with you. Do not be alarmed!”

The black man waved feebly at him to signal understanding and agreement.

The cyclops sat at his side, so that his face would not shock and he would be able to watch the other man’s moves. He had no fear of the wounded man—he had been the cause of his downfall and the preserver of his life. He had purchased him, between life and death, and now the power was all his, unfamiliar and thriving, from a source unknown to him but nonetheless evident: he owned this man. He had stared down the track with Este in his hands, and this man had slipped and faltered. There had been a reaction between the bow and his eye that saved their lives. Now something told him to spare, or rather save, this man’s life; there was a purpose in it.

“Why do you pursue me?” he asked quietly.

“I was not hunting you; I sought only the Bowman.”

“But you would have killed me if I hadn’t stopped you?”

Tsungali glanced tentatively at his interrogator’s profile and gave a small nod.

“So you do know that I stopped you?”

Tsungali nodded again and began to tremble.

“Do you also know that I saved your worthless life?”

Again he nodded, tears forming and a great weight growing over his heart.

The cyclops lowered his face and looked into his subordinate’s eyes; a great passion rose in him and swelled up, out of his chest.

“You are mine!” he boomed. His voice was commanding and alien to him, bred out of certainty and spite; the hunter shrivelled under its command, triggering some other instinct in Ishmael; he softened his tone a fraction. “What will you do for me?” he asked.

Tsungali directed a nod across the camp, indicating the pile of confiscated possessions; he seemed to have lost his power of speech. Ishmael stood and crossed the space to the small heap. He lifted each item, one at a time, until Tsungali signalled that he had reached the right one. In his hands was a bulky, brown leather belt, strung with pouches and bulging pockets. He inspected it suspiciously before returning to the prone man. Holding it up for a moment, he looked down into the man’s soul, then dropped it callously across his body. The buckle caught the stump end of his wound, and Tsungali jounced into spasm. Ishmael watched silently, waiting for the writhing to subside as some developing part of him sipped at the agony.

Eventually, once the throb in his shoulder had returned to an almost bearable rhythm, Tsungali fumbled into the pouches with his only hand. He pulled out a small, unseen item and held it in his loosely bunched fist. Ishmael watched for signs of betrayal but knew there would be none. The hand, which shook a little less than it had, slowly opened, palm up, cupping the small grass ball. Inside its woven cage, the eye stared out, focusing intently on its new owner.

—

Williams shot the arrow vertically, up through the green shadows and into the bright sky; he did it to consult her in a way that sought no direction, at least not in the physical realm. She had changed; his memory of her had shifted; they were no longer one body. There was no pain in the separation; it was as if they had simply worn out an invisible circulation in which they had once shared everything. The pounding veins and singing capillaries that had held every reflection and nuance of their world had disappeared; the flow between them that had made one soul of their minds and bodies had ceased, somewhere in the Vorrh. Now not even the recollection of their transfusion together existed. They were two things: a man and a bow.

He could never return to all that he had forgotten; the road ahead must be walked alone. He walked back into camp, undone and clear, smelling the new breeze in his tight, half-sobbing lungs.

—

“He is called Tsungali; he will be my servant from now on,” said Ishmael to the frowning Williams, who, though amazed at the turn of events in his absence, was equally intent on his own change of course.

“I know who he is. You are welcome to him.” If Ishmael noticed the distance in his friend’s tone, he didn’t show it.

“He knows a medicine man who can change my face; he has agreed to take us to him.”

Williams grunted impassively and started to gather his pack.

“What are you doing?” said Ishmael.

“I have other things to do. Your leg is better and you have a slave to look after you now.” At the word “slave,” everybody flinched, including its speaker.

“Where will you go?”

Williams paused for a moment, his emotions playing wearily over his face.

“Out of this godforsaken forest.”

They fell silent and still, each considering his position in the new pattern of things.

“Maybe straight through and out the other side,” said Williams finally, breaking the spell.

“If you travel on, it will take your memory,” said Tsungali, in his first unsolicited utterance.

“What memory?” Williams shrugged. “You know more about me than I do myself.” He turned away from the questions and stooped to retrieve a blanket, dropping it near his growing bundle of belongings. The rest of the day passed without much conversation. As the evening drew in, Williams gathered his possessions and moved them to another place in the forest. Ishmael assumed he would leave at dawn, and he put together a simple meal, as he had seen others do. He lit the campfire, boiled water, and waited. He and Tsungali were hungry and picked at the food. The bow rested against a nearby tree, its quiver hanging in the low branches: His friend could not be far away. But by nightfall, their comfort was replaced with anxiety, their appetites slipping away as the truth wormed its way into their stomachs: He had gone. The bow was left in the flickering tree, and he had departed, wordlessly, into the enveloping night.

The two wounded men made their way out of the Vorrh, to the island where Nebsuel dwelt. Tsungali’s hidden boat could not be used: The cyclops was too skittish and weak to be trusted on the fast water, and because Tsungali had only one arm, the boat was useless. So they went by foot, back through the monsters’ hunting ground.

Ishmael carried the bow; it had not left his hands since they realised that Williams had gone. It wormed itself into him day and night, burrowing into his future, drawing a blood line around all his maps of possible tomorrows. He dared not use it yet, fearing the momentum of its power when fully taut and waiting for release. Like a child, that virgin part of him shrank from the full volume and implication of such an act. He held it before him as they moved forward through the Vorrh, and the forest understood its new application of meaning. Not a creature dared approach them, and they were met by muffled silence all the way. The birds knitted their beaks, the animals bit their tongues, the insects froze, and the anthropophagi ignored their passing. The silence infected their journey, making it strange and infuriating for Ishmael: He had many questions for his new servant, but nothing he said could provoke an answer.

The pain amplified Tsungali’s introspection: The cyclops seemed to know nothing about the world. How could he begin to explain his history with Oneofthewilliams; his childhood; how he and his grandfather were shut behind glass in another world; the tragedy of the Possession Wars? There was too much to say and too little experience shared; better to be quiet and concentrated, stay on the track and get to the healing man as quickly as their wounds allowed.

Ishmael missed Williams, missed his humour and protection. He had a warmth about him that the tattooed killer who now travelled by his side could never possess. The old man refused to answer even the simplest questions as they pushed through the undergrowth. Ishmael began to think that he had made the wrong decision. He should have stayed close to his friend and not let him leave so sadly. There was, he began to realise, little reason to trust his new companion; his promise of a new face might be a lie or a lure—Ishmael could be following him to death or worse. Why had he so hastily accepted this man’s servitude? He could see that Tsungali feared him, but he did not understand his total abasement to him when he held the bow. He guessed it was some kind of primitive superstition and pondered how he might be able to put it to his advantage. He wondered if it could be used to receive the answers he so desired. He changed the bow from one hand to the other and then touched Tsungali’s back with its tip.

“Tell me about this medicine man,” he said.

The effect was instant and undisguised. The old killer fell to his knees, placing his working arm in the air in a gesture of surrender; Ishmael circled him, looking closely at the trembling man’s face.

“Yes, yes, I will say all, yes!” rattled the mercenary, in a fast, breathless assent.

“Then tell me about him. What can he do?”

“He can fix your face, fix like other men; he can put my live eye in, fix it there so two eyes like other men. He can do many things, make a new hand, last time fixed jaw, fix bullet wound. Some say he plays with death so face fixing is easy.” He was panting the words out like a running dog.

“Why will he do this for me?” asked Ishmael suspiciously.

“Do because of the bow, do anything for the bow, what bow says,” the hunter gibbered in reply.

Ishmael sat down on the earth and gripped the bow, turning it in his hands. He questioned his slave for an hour on all matter of things. The trembling man spat out a barrage of answers. Not all of it made sense, but Ishmael built a picture of his servant, of what he knew and how he could be used. When he had heard enough, he stood and pointed forward and the jabbering man led the way.

—

The Erstwhile watched the performance peak and fade. They crept close, keeping themselves concealed; gradually, with the slow speed of great wisdom, they saw the bow. The self of it accumulated in them, like a residue of sand forming a mountain, grain upon grain, until it filled the entire landscape. They had not known of its presence in the forest while it had been in the grip of the white man. Now, in the hands of the cyclops, it broadcast its existence loud and far. They turned away and moved at painstakingly slow velocity, as far away as they could. Conventional hiding was not enough; they separated and found their own places to dig, clawing the stubborn earth and roots aside. All now knew that the bow was here, and they made grave-like hiding places, crawling in and pulling piles of earth and leaves over themselves. They lay still in their concealment, waiting for sleep, hoping to escape the ambiguity of dreams, the scent of which was most attractive to higher animals and other, more difficult entities.

Nebsuel hid his shock at seeing Tsungali on his doorstep. So amazed was he that he scarcely noticed the hunter’s shaded companion, half-concealed by his hood and scarf. He brought them into his crowded workroom, a library of objects, bottled and stacked, shelved and hanging, boiled over, chaotic and alive, a vast collection of fragmented animal, vegetable, and mineral from around the globe. He gestured to them to sit and asked them to tell their tale.

Tsungali told of his quest and how it had changed. He said something of Oneofthewilliams, but not all. He told of demons and introduced Ishmael, who began to discreetly unwrap his face from within the scarf. “We have come to you for help. I am wounded again and my master needs rectification,” explained Tsungali.

“Master?”

“Yes, master.”

“Rectification?” said Nebsuel, like a stranger trying out a word in a foreign tongue.

“He needs a new face.”

Nebsuel swung around to view the other man. He looked straight into the cyclops’s face, and a strange gleam engulfed his gaze. Ishmael looked at him warily, uncertain of this unusual response; his doubt did not last for long.

“Wonderful!” crowed the healer, unable to control himself. “I never thought I would meet one. Do you speak?” he hawked, apparently expecting the response of some cretinous species or another.

“I do, but not in the crippled tongue of your native land.”

“By the living gods, he is intelligent!” declared Nebsuel, clapping his hands, a lascivious grin on his beaming face. “Forgive my rudeness, young master; I mean no offence; I am simply staggered by your uniqueness. Please, let me get you both something to eat and drink. Your journey must have been arduous.” He turned quickly, leaving a trace of something moist and hungry in the atmosphere around their bare skin. Ishmael’s hackles rose. He could not understand why, but he did not like this man; he had the bearing and manners of a jackal, one that was wiser and more complex than anyone he had yet met. But he was a gracious jackal, and Ishmael’s stomach urged his trust to be stretched a little further.

They ate and drank, taking freshwater into their parched throats. Their host opened a bottle of wine all the way from Damascus, where, Nebsuel explained, his forebears had come from. The wise man’s ancestors had travelled to fish the rich shoals of slaves hundreds of years earlier, building networks of communications that ran in all directions and to all lands.

The exotic things in this room, and the wine itself, still passed through the gradually fading routes.

“Tell me of your home and background,” he asked of Ishmael.

“They are unknown to me at this time,” the cyclops replied regretfully. “Completely unknown.”

“Ah, but you mean to find out?”

Ishmael eyed him warily. “I do,” he replied, uncertain of how much he could safely reveal.

“Take care, rare one; origins are mysterious. There are tangles and causes, curves and strangers, which are sometimes best unmet. Stones that should never be turned. Especially in one like you.”

It sounded like a genuine and sincere warning, and Ishmael began to warm to the shaman: Perhaps he was only a wolf and not a jackal at all? Even so, Ishmael avoided speaking of the Kin or Ghertrude: His instinct kept them well away from the uncertainty of strange men.

The conversation progressed and they talked about Nebsuel’s work. The old warrior promised Nebsuel he had a prize beyond riches and that the medicine man would find time in its company a magnificent exchange for his skills. There was some laughter about the existence of such a treasure; the wine helped silken the conversation’s flow.

Tsungali took the eye out with great care, picking bits of grass and dust from its slippery surface and clearing a space on the table to allow closer observation. Nebsuel brought his magnifying glass near and directed a pointed lamp at the treasure.

“You bring me another wonder,” he marvelled. “Such bounty; such bounty!”

He became hushed, bending closer to view the impossible again. Here was a new version of the thing he valued most, another demonstration that the world was unfathomable and its resources unlimited, infinitely mysterious and ever changeable. His expertise in anatomy and charm surgery was in a constant state of amazement, but this brought a new pinnacle of surprise: a human eye, active and vital, long after separation from its lifeblood and the protective surroundings of the rest of its body. What nourished it? What let it work so frantically when the optic nerve that operated it had been so definitely severed from the brain? It was like a continually working bucket that had unknowingly lost its well. He turned to Tsungali, enraptured.

“You know my only two prices are objects of use and objects of fascination.” Tsungali grinned through his gapped teeth. “You have brought me two bounties of knowledge and fascination: My service is yours. What can I do for you?”

They discussed the hunter’s arm, the wise man prodding thoughtfully at the healing stump, mental calculations whirring through the room. But at the mention of Ishmael’s face, his expression darkened.

“No,” said Nebsuel definitely. “Such uniqueness is untouchable. Why would you want to look like everybody else?”

“Because I want to become myself and live my life as a man, not as a monster. I want to be forgotten for who I am, not judged for how I have been made.”

Nebsuel paused to digest this, then said, “Do you choose to be with those who see you the wrong way?”

“Who else is there?”

“I know some.”

Ishmael tensed at the suggestion. “No, I want to go back changed.” Nebsuel made a clucking, swallowing sound and returned to his beaker of wine, shaking his head. Ishmael and Tsungali sat with him in silence, not looking at each other, eyes focused on their drinks. Too many moments had passed when Tsungali eventually blurted out, “Well? Will you do it? Will you operate on us?”

No answer came. The healer was hardening. Tsungali looked at Ishmael and nodded. “Show him,” he said, and Ishmael dipped his head in understanding.

Ishmael pulled the long, thick bundle from under his feet and started to unwrap it. At first Nebsuel paid no attention; he had assumed the bundle to be the stranger’s bedroll. But as more and more of the blanket was unravelled, he felt something straining in his solar plexus. He knew from old what that meant, but there was no time to register it or protect himself: The cyclops’s possession was disclosed. As the last layer fell away, he began to sweat, his heart drying and fluttering, mites and dust shaken off in the straining, sticky cage of his ribs. He could not believe what he was seeing. The dark maroon of the bow’s surface seemed to ripple and bend under his enforced gaze. Ishmael’s hand was black with effort and excrescence. The eye rolled from its safe perch on the table, gravitating towards the bow and the floor. Everything in the room seemed to be turning and twisting, yearning towards Este in a curiosity that became mangled midway into abeyance. Ishmael dragged the bow down and covered it with the blanket, crudely smothering its influence under the covering. The eye stopped short of the table’s lip; in its passage, it nicked itself on the sharp wire from around the discarded cork of the wine. The room crept back to inertia. Nebsuel sank into his seat as Tsungali grinned at the excellent demonstration. There was an eerie scent in the room: something of the sea and an exotic garden, smouldered together; a flinch of ammonia, at first exhilarating, and then turning to a whiff of dread, like a leeching memory trapped and waiting in a dream.

“I will do anything,” said Nebsuel, in a voice from a distant, colourless place, “anything you want.”

The bird activated its bell of arrival and the fine sound sleeted down into the lower room like pointed snow.

Sidrus was not expecting a communication; there was very little to be told from the river mouth. He continued rubbing the sticky balm into his porous face. The bell rang again, and he wiped the fat from his fingers, so that they would not slip as he retrieved the scroll from the bird’s dry, struggling ankle.

It was a message that should never have been sent, one laced with mistakenness from the moment Nebsuel had penned it, in a stolen pause that had masqueraded as the friendly replenishment of wine. It told of his visitors before he knew who they were and before he understood what it was that they really wanted. It said, simply:

Tsungali here with a cyclops. I think they killed Bowman and took his soul.

Sidrus dropped the note, feeling the consequence hollow him and make room inside for the wrath, which began to boil and brim. The lardish balm melted and dripped from his distorting face without the slightest trace of a flush. As the heat of it settled, he selected his canes and drugs, picking weapons with the detachment of a deadly perfectionist. It would take him three days to reach Nebsuel’s pox-ridden island, maybe another four to extract the right amount of pain from the wicked scum for performing such an act of blasphemy.

“I cannot make you a perfect, natural face,” Nebsuel explained. “It would seem that your skull has only one socket, so I will have to make a place for the other one. The living eye will be stitched into folds of constructed muscle and skin, but it will have no real nest to work in. It will not rotate; it will remain blind but, I hope, living. Yet, I cannot promise this. Whatever keeps it vital is beyond my understanding, and nothing to do with the rules of regular anatomy.

“I am anxious about its stability. If it were to die, it would infect the newly grafted tissue around it. But for now it is still animated, and as bright as your other. I pray it will always look like that, alert and active, not like false eyes made of glass or ivory, which always have a dead and lonely appearance. The good news for you is that because your working eye and socket are not quite central, the space between the eyes will seem more natural, if a little close together.” The shaman paused for breath, adding, “Which some find most attractive—many of the European royal families have interbred to create this very effect. They might even recognise you as one of their own!”

Sensing that he had pirouetted out onto very thin ice, he decided that it was best to retreat to the more solid ground of surgical details.

“I will build you a nose of normal proportion, to place between the eyes, using the little bulb you have now as a starting point. This will be the easiest part of the procedure. Did you know that surgeons are now treating injured warriors from the great European war with the same methods I have used for years? I am told that they use scrapings taken from diseases and tinctures from rotting moulds to help the healing. My charms and plants are much cleaner, but they take longer. You might look a bit like one of those scarred warriors, a man who has been in a battle and bears the wounds of his heroism with pride. Your face will look like a damaged version of all other humans. Are you sure that you want this, and that I cannot help you find another alternative?”

Ishmael looked from the bundle, which now stayed very close to him, to the doctor, who followed his gaze and his meaning. The conversation ended there.

—

Nebsuel attended to Tsungali first. Building a new, living hand was out of the question, but a wooden one, with a hinged elbow that strapped onto the remains of his upper arm, was feasible.

The old mercenary seemed disappointed; he had allowed himself to imagine a fully working hand, made of flesh and bone and imbued with magic. Nebsuel explained that if he had kept the fragments and brought them with him, then maybe he could have improvised a kind of weak, articulate hook or claw. But the hardwood version would be better, he assured him. The hunter could have different models, with ivory fingernails and powerful engravings; charms and weapons could be hidden inside. He could have versions of other creatures: Puma paws and boar tusks could sprout from his sleeve, eagle talons and shark teeth might surprise an attacker or a victim.

The old warrior came around to the idea but explained that the days of his mercenary skills were over. His purpose now was to serve Ishmael and use violence only to protect his master. He made this point very clearly, explaining that while they were both healing, any attempts of outrage on their persons would send him and the bow into a frenzy of revenge, especially if he was dead. Nebsuel reassured him that they were both safe, not realising that his message to Sidrus made his promise impossible to keep.

The patient slept in a drugged sea of his mother’s milk, his limb wrapped in layers of leaves and ointments, looking more like a papoose than a sling. The new arm was a crude affair but had a certain rustic brutality that Tsungali admired. Considering the short amount of time Nebsuel had taken to hollow and carve it, he considered himself fortunate to have anything more than an old chair leg grafted onto his stump.

Then it was Ishmael’s turn, and he was jumpy, even after the numbing drafts he had been given.

“Young master, this is your last chance to change your mind,” offered a blurring Nebsuel. “There is no going back once I begin.”

Ishmael looked out for the last time through the face of a cyclops, a face that had already begun to disintegrate in the gathering haze. His view of the speaker began to fall away on a long track, shrinking the medicine man, whose own face muffled gibberish at him.

“Do it. Do it!” he said, and he heard his words float up, cooing to sit on his closing eye like a fat, indifferent bird.